


No one saw us this evening hand in hand

by coloredink



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: trope_bingo, M/M, soulbonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:54:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloredink/pseuds/coloredink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John woke on the morning of 17 June and knew that Sherlock Holmes was alive, in the same way that he knew he was 1.69 metres tall, that his birthday was July 8, and that the sun rose in the east.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No one saw us this evening hand in hand

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Никто не видел, как взявшись за руки, мы шли в ночной тьме](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117799) by [Bothersome_Arya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bothersome_Arya/pseuds/Bothersome_Arya)



> This is not my A game, for which I apologize. But perfection must not be the enemy of the good enough, and sometimes I just really need to finish something and move on.

John woke on the morning of 17 June and knew that Sherlock Holmes was alive, in the same way that he knew he was 1.69 metres tall, that his birthday was July 8, and that the sun rose in the east. He knew this because he could feel Sherlock breathing in the back of his ribcage; he felt Sherlock's heartbeat next to his own.

\-----

The films and novels would have one believe that the Bond occurred at first sight. Eyes met across a crowded room, breaths gasped, hearts skipped, and their hands were joined in a flash. Weddings often followed. One simply _knew_.

But the books, written by psychiatrists and by the Bonded themselves, said that the Bond often formed over time, and that two people who had been friends for a long time without any sign that they were soulmates might one day wake and find themselves Bonded. It could be the result of some shared crisis or tragedy, or simply from living in one another's pockets for so long. Unlike what popular literature might have people believe, soulmates were not created for one another at birth. The Bond was a result of lived experiences that shaped two people such that they were perfect complements. They just might happen to complement each other on different continents, never to meet.

Lying awake in his tousled that morning, feeling the ache behind his breastbone that signalled that Sherlock was alive and merely...elsewhere, John turned the memories over and over in his head, wondering how this had happened, what had been the events that led up to this? He thought that for him, perhaps it was the moment Sherlock had cured his limp. That was the moment from which there had been no turning back: the moment that had led to him shooting the cabbie for a man he hardly knew, that had led to every other moment in their joined lives since then. Or, no, perhaps it was the moment he shot the cabbie. Bonding was a two-way street, after all, and it had not escaped John that that was the moment when Sherlock had begun to look at him with a certain gleam in his eye, as if John were particularly stupid and yet extraordinary dachshund.

Had Sherlock known? Had he suspected? Nothing escaped Sherlock Holmes; surely this little matter of a soulmate had not gone unnoticed. But if he'd known, would he still have done this?

Yes. Yes, he would have.

\-----

"Oh!" Mrs Hudson gasped. "Is that--"

John looked up, then around, and then finally down at his hands, where a thin black band wrapped around the third finger on John's left hand. It had appeared the day after his epiphany, first as a mottled bruise, darkening until it was ink-black and unmistakable: the mark of the Bonded, featured on the covers of so many torrid romance novels and self-help manuals. "Oh. Er."

"Oh." Mrs Hudson put the fingertips of both hands over her mouth as water stood in her eyes. "You poor thing."

"It's all right," John said, palms held out. He was used to seeing people cry in front of him--occupational hazard--but it was generally not about _him_.

"Oh, but he's _gone_ ," and Mrs Hudson began to sob in earnest. "He's gone and you just now--oh, you poor dear, what will you _do?_ "

He was going to wear gloves every day for the rest of his life, was what John was going to do, but for now he folded Mrs Hudson into an embrace. She clutched him tightly about the ribs, running her hand up and down his back as if John were the one in need of comfort. He didn't know what he'd do during the summer, when wearing gloves outdoors would be miserable as well as eccentric. He'd figure something out.

\-----

If Sherlock was alive, then the whole thing atop St Bart's had been a ruse. That pulseless corpse on the pavement--the upcoming funeral--the headstone--it was all a lie. But to what end? 

Sherlock never did anything without purpose--even if it was some purpose that only existed inside his funny old head, or even if that purpose was just to relieve his boredom--so it stood to reason that if Sherlock had faked his death, there must be some reason behind it. John had followed Sherlock into the catacombs, stood by whilst Sherlock wagered fifty pounds to a livid poultry farmer, forgiven Sherlock for experimenting on John at Baskerville. He saw no reason that he could not trust Sherlock in this as well.

That didn't mean he wasn't livid, oh, no. After all, he'd followed Sherlock into the catacombs, stood by whilst Sherlock wagered fifty pounds they didn't really have to a poultry farmer, and forgiven Sherlock for terrorizing John in the basement of Baskerville. He saw no reason that Sherlock could not trust him in this as well.

\-----

John wasn't certain which books were his and which were Sherlock's. Some of them were obvious: the _Crime Encyclopaedia_ , for instance, those were Sherlock's. But _Gray's Anatomy_ could have equally been his or Sherlock's, as could these old issues of _The Lancet_. John decided bin the latter and keep the former; _Gray's Anatomy_ wasn't cheap, and John didn't have a flatmate anymore.

The rent was taken care of, Mrs Hudson assured him, but John wanted nothing more than to light Mycroft's arse on fire right now, and also, there were appearances to think of. John was the grieving flatmate and partner, supposedly (partner in more ways than anyone knew, and oh, wouldn't the press love to get ahold of _that_ story), and John rather thought that, under the circumstances, he shouldn't be able to stay in 221B Baker Street. Every time he looked at the other armchair he ached for someone who wasn't there, and the sight of Sherlock's personal effects, untouched all about the flat, made his throat tighten and his eyes water.

Etc., etc., and so on.

_You've made Mrs Hudson cry, you know,_ he thought as he packed Sherlock's clothes to donate to Oxfam. Sherlock would need them if--when!--he came back, but the tosser could replace his own goddamn wardrobe. What did he need a flatmate for anyhow, with his bespoke Savile Row suits?

_And you've made Lestrade very sad and upset,_ John went on, pushing the hoover rather more roughly over the rug than perhaps it warranted. _He might get sacked over this, and I honestly don't know what'll be left of Lestrade if he's not a cop, I really don't. You're not the only one who's married to your work, you know._

His thoughts came bouncing back to him and rattled around in his skull in a persistent echo. What was the use of a Bond that didn't come with telepathy? But there was nothing but the twin heartbeats in his chest and the persistent knowledge, like an unremembered word just on the tip of his tongue, that Sherlock was alive. Out there. Somewhere.

_And then there's me_ , John thought, enunciating the words in his mind as if that would transmit them across time and space and Bond. _Not that that matters to you._

\-----

"This is the last of it." Lestrade set the box on the floor in the sitting room, with the other two boxes. This was the detritus of John's life: one duffel bag, one suitcase, and three medium-sized boxes. Everything else had been Sherlock's. Appropriate, really.

"Blokes," Lestrade said. "We know how to move, eh." He leaned with one elbow up against the kitchen counter. It wasn't much of a kitchen: a single counter and four cupboards, and John didn't know hobs came in that small a size. But it didn't have any petri dishes cluttering the counter or eyeballs in the microwave. 

John sat on two of the boxes, stacked one on top of the other. One of them contained cookware and a couple of purloined flannels and a towel. The other contained books, case notes that John hadn't the heart to throw out, and a few shirts that hadn't fit in his duffel. "She'll come around, Greg."

Lestrade shrugged. His skin was grey, with darker smudges around his eyes, and his trousers were baggy around his waist. He had only just been taken off suspension, but they still weren't giving him anything but the most banal of cases, ones that Sherlock would have snarled and turned up his nose at. "I don't know why I keep trying. Hoping. Just an idiot, I suppose."

"You're not an idiot," John said. "Even Sherlock thinks so. Thought. So."

Lestrade snorted.

But John knew this to be true, in the same way that he knew that Sherlock was alive, and that he would stay with Sherlock until one or both of them died, even if Sherlock never came back.

"I'm sorry, mate," Lestrade burst out. He cleared his throat. "About. About Sherlock. It wasn't--nobody wanted that. What happened."

Now it was John's turn to shrug. It was not the first time Lestrade had said those words; probably it would not be the last.

John was wearing gloves. If Lestrade had remarked on them, John would have said it was to keep the dust and dirt from his hands during the move. Or in deference to the wet, autumnal weather. But Lestrade had not asked, and now it would be very easy for John to take his left glove off and show Lestrade the black band around his ring finger, explain everything.

"It is what it is," said John. "But thanks. For helping me move."

\-----

According to the literature, John was supposed to fade away like a clock winding down. Mrs Hudson came to see him frequently, bringing with her cakes and cookies and flowers to brighten up John's dreary little bedsit. He was grateful for it; it did remind him a little strongly of the hostel where he'd been living, before he met Sherlock.

He used to think of life as Before Sherlock and After Sherlock. Now there was also Before the Fall and After the Fall. Later, John supposed, there might be Before Return and After Return. 

And what would After Return be like? They'd had the occasional would-be client turn up, wringing their hands on their doorstep, convinced that Sherlock's methods could be used to find their soulmate. Sherlock had always turned them away with a sneer. His methods were _rational_ ; soulmates were not. And they were poor odds, besides, with so many billions of people on the planet, and Sherlock didn't take hopeless cases.

"Why would anyone want such a thing?" Sherlock had wondered aloud once, after yet another trembling, large-eyed soul had been driven away. "To be shackled to another person, their obligations your obligations, tied to all their needs and desires." He had shuddered.

John had thought the notion of soulbonds rather romantic, but he had kept that to himself.

(And then, of course, they had literally been shackled together. That had gone rather well, once they'd overcome the initial hurdles. John thought of that time cheerfully, which was perhaps a sign that all was not right in his head.)

Sherlock might resent the band around his finger. He might find the second heartbeat distracting; John's constant humming presence in the back of his mind infuriating. He might suffocate.

He might not come back at all.

\-----

One day, John texted Mycroft--the first time he'd communicated with Mycroft since The Fall-- _I know_.

_Know what? MH_

Christ, both of them signed their texts? Twits.

_You know._

_I'm sure I haven't the faintest. MH_

John pondered how best to communicate this without giving anything away. Texting "I know that Sherlock is alive" via an unsecured mobile phone network seemed dodgy, at the least, especially if Sherlock were out there doing something dangerous, which he assuredly was, because when was Sherlock ever doing something not dangerous.

_I know that Irene is alive_ , John tried at last, hoping Mycroft would get the hint.

Fifteen minutes later, Mycroft was in John's flat, sipping what was assuredly execrable tea. John pointedly did not ask him if he wanted milk or sugar, and Mycroft did not ask for any. He also did not put on his gloves; he typically did not wear them when he was alone in his flat, and anyhow, he hadn't texted Mycroft just to hide the Bond from him.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Now, I'm sure you won't take it personally if I--"

"Actually, I take it very personally," John said.

"--ask when or how, precisely, this happened."

"The day after," John said.

Mycroft seemed to roll this information around in his mouth as he would a fine wine. "It has been over a year since then," he said. "You saw fit to inform me now because...?"

John didn't know, actually.

"I was bored," he decided.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in what John recognised as "faint alarm." "Good Lord," he said. "You _are_ soulmates." He sounded faintly worried.

"Great," said John. "And now that you know that, you can tell me what he's doing out there."

\-----

One rainy grey day in autumn, there was a knock on the door. John opened it knowing who was on the other side.

"Hello," Sherlock said.

"Hi," said John.

They looked at one another. Eventually, John stepped aside. Sherlock left his wet shoes and his coat by the door. John went into the kitchen and made tea. Sherlock stood in the middle of the flat and looked around, his hands on his hips.

"You'll be moving back into Baker Street, of course," said Sherlock.

John brought Sherlock his tea: sugar, no milk. Just like his coffee. Sherlock took it and sat in one of the wooden chairs by the table. John took the other chair. He lived in the flat alone and hardly ever had anyone over, but it didn't do for a man to have only one chair.

"You weren't going to _tell_ me." John curled his hand into a fist atop the table, his nails scratching against the wood. "You were just going to, to fake your own death, and hare off to God knows where for two years, and _not tell me_. You were going to _let me think you were dead_."

"Yes." Sherlock curled his fingers around his mug of tea. The black band stood out stark against his pale skin.

John swallowed. He blinked several times, hard. He couldn't have looked at Sherlock any more than he could have stared directly into the sun. "And you're not sorry."

"No." No hesitation on Sherlock's part. He lifted his chin. "I would do it again."

"I kept your secret." John flattened his left hand on the table between them. "I kept _our_ secret. You could have trusted me."

"I didn't know that," Sherlock said, softly, but he didn't look away. "At the time. And then when it became clear to me that you would know the truth no matter what, then my knowledge became irrelevant."

John withdrew his hand and kept it underneath the table, curled atop his thigh. He had to work hard not to bare his teeth. "So you didn't trust me until you had no choice."

Sherlock did not reply.

"Fuck you." John got up from the table. He went into the kitchen, where he leaned against the counter. "Get out of my flat."

John didn't hear the scrape of a chair or the click of a door, so he knew that Sherlock didn't move. "John," Sherlock said. "We're Bonded now. Even if I left, even if you never saw me again, what do you think would be the outcome?"

John concentrated on his breathing and didn't answer. He knew that Sherlock was right. If Sherlock left, if he never came back and they never contacted each other again, John would still feel two heartbeats in his chest. He would never find another partner: even if potential mates weren't driven off by the black band around his finger, the Bond with Sherlock would preclude him forming long-term relationships with anyone else. And the same would be true for Sherlock.

Now, _now_ John heard the scrape of a chair. He put one arm up against the cupboards and leaned his forehead against it, so that he wouldn't have to look at Sherlock as he came up from behind.

Sherlock stopped while he was still far away enough that he could easily dodge a punch. "But I was glad when it happened," he said, and his voice was very loud in the still, small flat. "When I knew that you knew." When John did not answer, he went on, "It meant I didn't have to wrestle with possibilities. I didn't have to wonder about you, miss you, ask Mycroft after you. Because I knew. And I knew that you knew."

John let out a long, trembling breath. He let his curled fist relax. "All right." He cleared his throat. "All right, you damn bastard. I hate you, but all right."

"What's all right?"

John squeezed his eyes shut. And he felt Sherlock's hand, tentative, on his shoulder. "I mean it's fine."

"It's all fine?"

"Yes." John opened his eyes again. "It's all fine."

 

\---end---


End file.
